


Blue Moon, Blood Moon

by crumplednotes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-12-12 17:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumplednotes/pseuds/crumplednotes
Summary: Will not be continued.





	1. Arthur Kirkland

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is inspired by Beautiful Creatures by Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl, but I'll be changing enough stuff that you won't get confused if you've never read the book/series. (You also don't need to worry about spoilers about the book.)

Francis awoke with the taste of scotch and clove cigarettes on his tongue. He shivered despite the early August heat and looked around his room with wide, wild eyes.

He remembered nothing of the nightmare, but wave after wave of terror pounded through his body—oppressive, heavy, hooked barbs that wouldn’t let go of him.

 _3:11_ glared from the screen when he looked at his iPhone. Francis groaned and put his cellphone down on the box he currently used as a nightstand.

The fear wouldn’t let him keep his eyes shut for more than five seconds; his heart was a jackhammer that spread its rapid pulsing up his spine and through his skull. His entire body kept flooding with more and more adrenaline, instinct screaming that he was being watched, that it was either fight or flight.

Every shadow seemed like an intruder; every sound was someone approaching the bed, about to rip his windpipe out of his throat.

 _“When you’re on the right path, enemies will find you,”_ his grandmother told him a few years ago, when the dementia became apparent. _“They will frighten you and for good reason. Use that fear to your advantage. There’s strength in fear that people these days don’t see.”_

She’d go off on weird tangents whenever Francis visited when her mind first started to slip.

He’d listen with either a smile or serious expression, whichever the lecture seemed to command, though he never really listened. Occasionally, he’d recall a line or two, hanging onto her words now the same way he hung onto her iron ring, which he wore around his neck on a leather strap.

Francis rarely took it off, and he felt around his neck for it now. Eyes still closed as he turned his focus to his breathing, he moved the cool ring down so it and his hand rested over his heart. The ring was a long, thin rod of iron that had been shaped into a spiraling ring that was so long that his grandmother had been unable to bend her left ring finger.

After François passed away when Francis was a baby, Marianne never wore her wedding band. The iron ring was the only jewelry she bothered with until she pressed it into Francis’s hand in the hospital a year ago last week.

 _“Take back the locket,”_ she whispered soon as Francis’s parents had left them alone. Her pale blue eyes had been bright with fever and panic. She wheezed, the machine’s beeping growing faster. _“Find the fruit. Promise me.”_

The nurses had rushed in and ushered Francis out of the room before he could promise. She fell into a coma, and Francis’s dad had the plug pulled a week later.

 _This stupid town_ , he thought, cursing the tears slipping into his hair and pillow. _Three people recognized me already, because I look so much like her._

He should have listened to his dad and stayed in New York.

Muttering how he couldn’t change his mind now, Francis finally opened his eyes. Taking deep breaths, he threw off his sweat-dampened sheet and put on his slippers. He’d yet to get around to sanding the pinewood floor, and no way in hell he was going to get a colony of splinters in his feet on top of that damn nightmare.

It was more than just a nightmare, but it wasn’t quite reality - or any reality he’d known.

“Wonderful,” Francis muttered to himself, flipping on the hall light to avoid running into furniture or boxes. “Maybe it wasn’t the dementia. Maybe she was just crazy and she passed on the gene to you.”

He paused at top of the staircase and slumped, glaring down at the iron ring around his neck.

“ _Mamie_ , there better be a locket here,” he whispered, tone more sorrowful than angry. “But I could use some help. If you haven’t been reincarnated yet…”

What? Guide him? Hug him and assure him like in _Moana_?

That would be nice, actually.

Sighing, Francis headed down the staircase, flipping on all the lights on his way to the kitchen.

* * *

The coffeehouse on campus was on the ground floor of the library, past the information and check-out desks and media center. There was already a line, though only four people. Blue Moon University wasn’t big, and only a few classes started before nine.

The house brew was less than a dollar since Francis was filling his thermos instead of using one of the café’s cups. He requested enough room be left for cream and sugar, the barista smiling tiredly as she moved onto the next customer.

Francis wanted to pour a Red Bull or 5 Hour Energy into his coffee, but he would only get a trip to the ER with that, he was sure.

Instead, he settled for skim milk and sugar.

As he started mixing, the thin stick barely long enough, Francis smelled clove cigarettes. The smell poked at a memory, but the images his mind half-heartedly conjured slipped away like smoke through his fingers.

A guy with bedhead and dark clothes walked up next to him to add honey to his drink, yawning loudly. Despite the temperature outside pushing ninety-five, the guy wore a studded leather jacket, and there was something written on his right hand. The handwriting was too neat and orderly—like a font on a computer.

Francis blinked hard and closed his thermos.

There were weird enough things going on in Bumfuck, Louisiana without focusing on a guy with fading green hair and no sense of heat.

There was a random, concrete Ouija board by a narrow, back road that Francis had driven down coming here. There was a Victorian-style house atop a hill at the south end of Blue Moon inhabited by a recluse that people talked about in a hush and refused to name, like he was the Bogeyman or Beetlejuice. There was a large clearing in the woods on the west side of town where nothing grew and was rumored to be where the Devil made deals with the malevolent and desperate.

But those things were almost normal compared to the riding lawn mower race, rooster impersonation contest, and any number of fried “food” at the county fair.

It was hard to believe his Mr. Prim and Proper father had been born and raised here, but it was easy to see where Marianne had obtained all her superstitions and odd ramblings.

The classroom was freezing compared to outside. According to the guy sitting in front of Francis (“Alfred _F_. Jones,” as though the middle initial were of specific importance), the whole building was either Hoth or Tatooine—no in-between.

Like most first days, the professor started with having them state their names and major. Afterwards, Dr. Karpusi handed out the syllabuses and went over the grading policy. As he moved onto the tardy and absent policy, the door opened, and Francis looked up, pausing in bringing his thermos to his lips.

It was the guy from the coffeehouse, holding just a notebook, with a pen tucked into the spiral, and his drink.

“Glad to have you join us, Mr. Kirkland,” Dr. Karpusi said in a bored voice. “Take a syllabus and a seat, and don’t think I will let you slide simply because your uncle is a benefactor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kirkland sat on the other side of the room, in the back. His accent sounded English, but Francis didn’t have the ear to say what region.

“Who’s that?” Francis asked Alfred. Mr. Karpusi had started going over the syllabus again.

Turning slightly, Alfred adjusted his red plastic-framed glasses. “That there?” He motioned towards Kirkland. “Arthur. His uncle’s the Boo Radley that’s holed up in Desormeaux Manor. Arthur’s mom moved to England and married his dad there, though. Coventry? Don’t remember, but he lives at the manor now. Kinda’ve a pariah. I’ve tried talking to him before, but I don’t think he wants—”

“Save your comments for after class, Mr. Jones,” said Dr. Karpusi. “Like you, others paid to be here, and their money shouldn’t go to waste.”

Cheeks flushed, Alfred faced forward. “Sorry, sir.”

As the professor continued to speak, Francis glanced at Arthur, who was scribbling away in his notebook and paying no mind to what Dr. Karpusi was saying.

Francis wondered what he was writing and immediately felt a wave of the fear from this morning return. He swallowed a gasp and combed his hair back with his fingers. He took a deep breath, glad to see no one had noticed anything happened, but when he glanced back at Arthur, he saw that he was staring at him, eyes narrowed.

* * *

Monday and Wednesday classes ended at one in the afternoon for Francis. By the time his Advanced Grammar class was over, his stomach was growling.

But then he realized just how little unpacking he’d done. He moved here a little over a month ago, and he still had done barely more than dust and vacuum. He also hadn’t gone grocery shopping in over a week, so other than a small square of cheese, all he had was Cheerios and cat food.

Padding into the kitchen, Fish meowed loudly.

The long-haired tabby had come with the house and showed no interest in leaving. Originally, Francis had been thinking of getting a betta fish, but when the cat had declared the house as much hers as his, he decided to compromise and name her Fish.

“I might as well pick you up some food too, eh?” Francis chuckled, bending down to scratch the tabby behind her clipped ear. She purred loudly, and Francis smiled. “Alright, alright.”

The Winn Dixie was some miles away, and the bushes on the left side of the building always smelled of weed.

There weren’t many people inside, and Francis wished he’d made a list beforehand. His mom used to tell him to avoid shopping when hungry, and he now saw why. He kept second-guessing whether he needed something or not, especially when he needed to stick to his budget.

Rent was cheap, at least, but it would be nice to have a roommate at some point, to at least have company. The houses in the southern area of Blue Moon were spaced apart, the furthest cry he could get from Long Island while staying in the country.

Almost done and now starving, Francis decided to check out the wine. He tended to have expensive tastes, but he’d found putting red wine through a blender for several seconds made even the cheapest bottle taste good.

Picking up a couple bottles of something that looked good, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and smelled clove cigarettes.

Turning, he spotted Arthur, who froze while about to push his cart down the aisle. He was close enough this time that Francis noticed how green Arthur’s eyes were—not a speck of blue or brown in them.

He wore a studded collar, a seven-pointed star necklace, and a plain metal ring about the size of a half-dollar coin on a leather cord. Most of his shirt was obscured by his jacket, but Francis recognized the heartagram symbol for that band HIM.

Francis offered a smile, but Arthur remained stone-faced, making Francis’s smile falter.

He grabbed the wine and hurried towards the check-out area, feeling Arthur’s eyes on him. Francis now understood the phrase “burning gaze.” He knew it had to be his imagination, but he swore he could feel the back of his neck prickling and heating up. The sensation slowly creeped up over his skull.

 _The less I have to see that guy, the better_ , Francis decided.


	2. Storm

The days went by slowly; yet the week sped on right by. Anyone who wanted to experience the closest humans could come to time-travel just needed to sign up for classes—bonus points if one was grammar and/or linguistics. The grammar professor was fine at least, but the guy teaching linguistics looked and raved like a man that sat in a dark room hunched over a pile of books with a board of conspiracy theories behind him when he wasn’t teaching.

After two classes with him, Francis would never think his grandmother as crazy ever again.

He had yet to make any friends, though, but Alfred was amiable enough in Western Civ. He tended to ramble, but he was smarter than first impressions alluded to. He was pretty conservative, though, and it didn’t take long before he mentioned his church and invited Francis to one of its pot lucks.

Francis was nervous about going, but he’d accepted anyway, needing human interaction. He felt so isolated at his house, and so many people at BMU seemed to already know one-another and have their own groups.

“I’ll meet people at my job,” Francis promised himself as he shifted his book bag to his other shoulder and open the screen door, the wood door cracked open thanks to it refusing to fit into the frame correctly.

If this wasn’t Blue Moon Everyone Knows You and Your Family Going Back Five Generations, Louisiana, this would make him more nervous.

The job wasn’t his yet; his interview with the owner was later today. He was confident, though. Maybe it was arrogance, but intuition told him he would be working there come Monday.

Arms hurting, Francis sighed his bag down to wrestle open the door of the closet beneath the staircase. He swore, realizing he’d forgotten to pick up light bulbs again.

The lights in the den and in his room needed changing too, but he’d just have to deal with dim lighting for another day or so.

Pushed against the back wall was an old bookcase made of cheap wood, the shelves sagging from when they used to hold a whole collection of books. Francis wasn’t sure why the last person to live here would leave behind so much furniture, but he wasn’t about to complain.

As Francis balled up the plastic bag to stuff into the plastic bag hanging from the door knob on the inside of the closet, Fish started meowing loudly.

Francis shut the closet with his foot and let the queen of the house inside. She could have just jumped into the house through one of the open windows (as insult to the injury that was this house, the AC unit was busted), but she apparently liked bossing humans around instead.

Soon as the screen door shut, thunder boomed, and the heavens opened up in a way they hadn’t since the days of Noah.

God. Damned. Louisiana.

“ _Fuck_!” Francis ran around the house to close all the windows.

Several were stuck, and one in the den wouldn’t close all the way. He ended up duct taping plastic wrap around the opening to keep rain from hitting his TV and other electronics. Fish purred from the couch as if laughing.

“Shut up,” Francis growled, staring at the tape and plastic wrap on the wall. “I’m officially a redneck. Taranis, strike me down.”

The lights zapped off as lightning flashed outside, thunder overlapping.

“ _I didn’t mean it_!” Francis shouted, staring upwards. The lights flickered on for a second and then went out again. “Candles… candles… Upstairs.” He thanked the Gods it was still light enough to see where he was going. “I keep forgetting light bulbs, but I have a whole box of just candles.”

It wasn’t long before the kitchen and den glowed. There were enough candles that Francis briefly worried about accidentally starting a fire, but the rain fell so hard, he was pretty sure any house fire would be put out immediately.

Dinner consisted of the leftover Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe, heated up on the gas stove, since the microwave wasn’t working.

The doorbell rang when Francis dumped the pasta onto his last clean plate.

Fish hissed and ran through the kitchen to run up the staircase. It was the long way around, as though she were avoiding the front door at all costs.

A familiar leather jacket covered the head of the man standing on Francis’s porch. His blond-and-green hair was plastered to his head, his shirt sagged as a puddle drowned the welcome mat, and his green eyes widened upon meeting Francis’s gaze.

“Arthur.” Francis blinked. “Um, let me get you a towel.”

Leaving the door half-open, Francis rushed into the bathroom upstairs. The downstairs one’s shower didn’t work, so he didn’t keep any bath stuff down there. Fish was hiding in the bathroom sink, and Francis was tempted to turn the tap on.

 _Good, they’re clean_ , he thought when he looked in the cabinet under the sink. He grabbed the thickest one and brought it downstairs.

Arthur hesitated, glancing back as though looking for an escape route, and Francis’s arm suddenly felt like lead as he held up the towel.

Clearing his throat, Arthur took it from him but wouldn’t make eye-contact. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Francis swallowed. “I can hang up your jacket here.” He motioned towards a row of hooks nailed to the wall, next to the closet door.

Arthur shook his head. “Thanks, but… um, I was hoping for a ride to my uncle’s manor. My, um, car broke down.” His eyes stayed trained on the floor. “But it’s okay if—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Francis stepped out of his slippers and into a pair of shoes from the line against the wall, underneath the hooks. “Let me just blow out the candles first. Step in for a minute.”

As Francis went into the kitchen to put his plate in the microwave and blow out the candles, Arthur traced the door frame with his eyes. He dried himself off to the best of his ability and stepped inside. However, he never moved further into the house than the front hallway, looking around like he was searching, rather than observing.

Francis caught him looking over the walls as he stepped back into the hallway, keys in hand and the house dimmer. Lightning lit them up for a split second, the thunder near-simultaneous.

Who had lived here before? Francis recalled people referring to this place as The Chicken-Legged Hut or just The Hut. His landlady had been hired by the property’s owner to keep an eye on things. She was gentle and kind, but based on what little Francis had heard, the property owner was a force not to be reckoned with if you wished to remain alive.

Whenever he’d asked about the owner or previous renters, people fell quiet and changed the subject. It was odd, to say the least, and whenever this happened, worry would prickle along his spine.

He told himself he was worrying over nothing and to stop thinking like some useless protagonist in a B-list horror movie.

Francis grabbed his umbrella, which he kept by the door. “Ready?”

Arthur nodded, holding his jacket to his chest and wrapped up in the towel, which was soaked and therefore useless by the time the two of them made it to Francis’s car.

With wind blowing the rain sideways, the umbrella had been forced inside-out and useless, tossed into the backseat before Francis started the car.

Lightning flashed again, and Francis’s heart jumped up into his throat. He failed to hide his unease as he drove to Desormeaux manor.

Arthur didn’t offer any conversation, and despite wanting to end this awkward moment as soon as possible, Francis was forced to keep his car under twenty miles an hour. Half the road was underwater, deep enough to make Francis fear it would seep through the underside of the door and get inside. 

Unable to deal with the rain as the only sound, Francis turned on the radio, catching the chorus of a song that had been coming on the radio every day the past week:

_Two souls that are both half and whole  
_ _Broken down by blood and by love  
_ _The Damned take what the Bless’ed stole  
_ _Return to Below from Above-_

Arthur shut off the radio. Francis was about to argue, but Arthur’s sudden, sharp look stayed his tongue.

Seconds started to separate the lightning and thunder, so while the rain was still ark-worthy, at least the storm was moving elsewhere.

It felt like an eternity passed before they finally pulled up to the front gate of Desormeaux property. Marking the center of the gate was the image of a raven over a seven-pointed star and a crescent moon arched over the bird’s head.

Francis opened his mouth when the gate opened, the image splitting in half. Arthur told him to drive up the hill, and Francis took a breath before following the direction.

The manor quickly rose over the canopy of trees and mist, dark and totally not helping with the horror vibe Francis had been trying to ignore.

There was a place to park up front, an overhang covering a bend in the driveway, which looped around a garden circling a statue that held the edge of the overhang over her head. She looked so real, like she’d thrown her hands up just as she caught Medusa’s gaze.

“Thanks,” Arthur said quickly, unbuckling. He dropped the towel onto the floor and put on his jacket. “My uncle doesn’t like company, so you should—”

“Artie! You brought a friend!”

The heavy oak front door seemed to open by itself, a tall man in a white-and-pearl grey suit sauntering onto the cobblestone. The rain, still blowing sideways, never touched him.

The man had wavy, corn silk hair that fell to his shoulders, a stray curl falling over his slender, alabaster face. His eyes were his most striking feature, pale blue with a shimmer of violet. Colored contacts, maybe.

Arthur stumbled out of the car, looking nervous. “Uncle, he must really be go—”

This was Matthew Williams Desormeaux, the Boo Radley of Blue Moon. He looked like he couldn’t be older than thirty-five, but based on the timeline Francis had been given, he should be well into his fifties.

“Nonsense!” Mr. Desormeaux was all smiles, but it felt predatory, not friendly. He motioned towards Francis, and without thinking, he turned the key to kill the engine. “It’s raining cats and dogs, and may the Good Lord strike me down if I force the man bringing my nephew home safe drive in such a storm.”

He was speaking to Arthur, but his eyes never left Francis.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, I insist you stay until weather allows safer travel.” Mr. Desmoreaux’s voice was a purr, and he turned and glided back into the manor, trusting that his request would be taken as an order.

Francis got out of the car, and Arthur stuck his hands into his jacket as he followed his uncle.

“Well, come on, I guess,” he grumbled, not looking back at Francis. “I’ll make tea.”


	3. Mirrors

Twin staircases cascaded down from the second floor’s balcony hallway and met in the middle before opening up in the great room. The landing where the twin staircases met looked like where Prince Charming would have been standing when he caught Cinderella’s eye at the ball.

Francis halfway expected to hear Anna Kendrick singing while stuck in a puddle of pitch.

But this wasn’t a fairytale castle. It was the town hermit’s mansion. Desormeaux Manor. The place people spoke about in whispers the way kindergarteners talked about Bloody Mary.

It looked much bigger than it had outside, even just from the front room. The floor was hardwood a shade darker than the staircase. The railings had carvings running all over them, falcons with their wings part-way outspread flanking either side of the end.

A massive chandelier hung above, perfect for falling on top of the villain or swinging down from to save the day, if this were a movie.

Francis followed Arthur through a tall archway to the right as thunder boomed.

On either side were square, waist-high tables and tall mirrors above them. Francis didn’t get much more than a glance and tried to pass the sight as nothing more than a trick of the light - mixed with fear from the storm and unease at being here with one man that clearly didn’t like him and another man people in town refused to say the name of any louder than a whisper.

Glass vases of red camelias, juniper, amaryllis, lilies of the valley, and yellow acacia. All the flowers looked fresh despite no water being in the vases (and Francis could tell with only a glance they were real), and a saucer sat in front of the vases. Each saucer held half an apple with honey drizzled over them.

It was the mirrors, though, that had made Francis’s heart skip a beat. Humanoid shadows moved just beneath the glass, but when he blinked and looked directly at the glass, only the room was reflected. Francis wanted to say something but swallowed the words; when he turned back to Arthur, he was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

 _What the fuck did I ever do to him?_ Francis wondered, trying not to look annoyed as he was.

He never asked to come in. All he did was perform a good deed: bringing Arthur back home.

 _“What ever happened to the Samaritan?”_ Francis had asked his Sunday school teacher as a child.

_“I’m… sorry…?” his Sunday school teacher asked hesitantly._

_“After he dropped off the hurt man,” Francis clarified. “What happened? When he died?”_

_“It’s just a parable,” the boy behind him spat. “It’s not real.”_

_“You can’t just say something in the Bible isn’t real,” a girl chided, and everyone stared at the teacher, awaiting an answer._

_“He went to Heaven.” The Sunday school teacher’s tone said it was time to move onto the next subject._

_Francis stayed quiet, not participating when the teacher had them go around and say a good deed they’d done for a friend or family member that week. She challenged them to do something nice for someone they didn’t know well and even for someone they didn’t like._

_“What if we like everyone?” the girl from earlier asked in a haughty tone._

_Francis zoned out and didn’t hear what the Sunday school teacher said._

_Later that day, he went out to his back yard and buried the page he’d torn out of his Bible, to mourn the Samaritan’s death. His Sunday school teacher said the Samaritans were hated by the Hebrews, so Francis assumed that maybe the Good Samaritan hadn’t had anyone to mourn his death, which upset him. At his maternal grandfather’s funeral last year, the church had been so full, people had needed to stand in the back._

_And he’d been mean. Someone like the Good Samaritan in the story deserved at least one person remembering him, not just one thing he’d done._

Everyone had kept telling him that it was just a story, and mourning the Good Samaritan’s death would be like mourning Dumbledore—this was said before Dumbledore actually died in the books, and Francis had a funeral for him, too.

Never able to vocalize why he’d felt so strongly about that one unnamed character, Francis had remained silent on the matter after a while. Later, when his parents stopped attending to church and when Francis was introduced to paganism through a Wiccan friend, the Good Samaritan’s Funeral became just another family joke, something to talk about over Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.

“They don’t understand,” his grandmother whispered to him over bread pudding when he was thirteen, “but I do. I do. You look at the _people_ , not just their deeds. That’s good. You see the whole, not just their pieces.”

That was around the time her mind had first begun to slip, when her words were categorized as wise instead of crazy.

“Sit, please.” Matthew’s words broke Francis out of his thoughts of funerals and his grandmother.

His voice was clear as though in the same room, the word _disembodied_ clinking into Francis’s mind. There were more mirrors in the den (parlor?), on either side of the fireplace that probably didn’t get much use and on either side of the door opposite of ceiling-high windows. He saw now moving shadows out of the corner of his eye but still felt on-edge.

Matthew flourished back into the room from the swinging door. “I have Kitchen preparing hot tea and scones for us.”

 _‘Kitchen?’_ Francis wondered. It sounded like a pretty dehumanizing nickname, but he kept his mouth shut.

He followed Arthur to a wood-and-white cushion couch by the coffee table in the center of the room.

They faced Matthew, and the fireplace behind him. Hanging above the mantle was another mirror, this one with an ornate frame gilded with gold and silver. A shadow passed just beneath the glass, and a nearby animal (dog, probably) chuffed in its sleep.

Frozen and back ramrod straight, Francis wasn’t too sure the shadow was a trick of the light.

“Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Matthew, sitting in the arm chair across from the couch, pulled Francis’s attention away from the mirror. His purple-tinted eyes seemed to glow. It was easy to see why people would only say his name in a whisper.

“I hear you’re from New York,” he said.

“Yes—yes, sir.” Francis was still getting used to adding the formal titles to his speech. “Long Island. We shared the house with my aunt, uncle, and cousins. It feels weird having a whole house to myself.”

Matthew brushed his bangs away from his eyes. “What brought you home?”

“The college. It’s inexpensive, and the English program is in the top thirty in the country.” Much to Francis’s surprise.

A corner of Matthew’s mouth inched upwards. “Must have been a bit of a surprise.”

Francis blinked, and Arthur spoke up:

“Uncle…”

His tone was like that of a parent chastising a toddler, and Matthew waived him off. His expression was playful, but Francis thought he saw a flicker of woe.

Lightning flashed, thunder booming seconds afterwards.

The base of Francis’s skull itched. He felt suddenly tired, and watching as Matthew’s pupils dilated made a series of chills cascade down his spine.

Francis licked his lips and tasted scotch, even though he rarely drank liquor, and when he did, it was part of a mixed drink.

The nagging feeling of forgetting something prodded his mind but brought no answers.

He wanted to leave but stayed seated. He’d drink the cup of tea “Kitchen” was preparing and then leave—whether a dove came back with an olive leaf or not.

Chuckling, Matthew rose from his chair, movements languid as a cat awakening. “I will go check on Kitchen’s progress.”

When he was through the swinging door, Arthur sighed and leaned back into the cushions.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“Hmm?” Francis shifted so as to face Arthur.

However, Arthur, arms crossed over his chest, was looking up as though inspecting the chandelier.

“About him. Uncle Matthew.” He paused, thin lips pursed, and he sighed again. “There’s reasons beyond never leaving the property for his eccentric status in town. I apologize in advance for him asking increasingly personal questions.”

“It’s… um, alright.” He said it more like a question.

“It’s not,” said Arthur, “but he’s going to do it anyway.”

The dog snorted from where it slept, and Francis stared at it. It was large and curled away from him, but the ears looked small and round, like a bear’s. That couldn’t be what it was, though. There were people getting foxes as pets now, sure, and he’d heard of pet racoons, even, but a freaking _bear_?

“That’s Kumajiro,” Arthur informed when he followed Francis’s gaze. “Uncle Matt rescued him as a cub, but he often forgets the little guy’s name. He probably should have chosen a name in English, but he was studying Japanese at the time.”

Francis blinked, praying the animal stayed asleep for the remainder of his visit. “So it’s a bear.” A freaking bear.

Arthur nodded. “Black bear, ironically. It has albinism. He’s tame, so don’t worry. He’s much more likely to sleep than attack.”

“Oh.” Francis couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Matthew returned and chastised Arthur on his posture.

“And to think you attended etiquette school in Atlanta every summer from age six to seventeen.” Matthew shook his head and set a large, silver tray onto the coffee table.

The tray held a teapot, three overturned teacups, and a plate of cherry scones. There were also two small bowls, one with butter and one with whipped cream.

“I’m still convinced you only did that to show me what Hell’s like,” said Arthur as he grabbed a scone and smeared a glob of butter over the top of it.

Turning the cups over and filling them with tea, Matthew chuckled softly. “Of course not, my boy. That is what Pastor Jones’s sermons are for.”

Pastor Jones, like Alfred Jones? If he was a preacher’s son, it explained a few things, and in a town like this, it was hard to get away with anything anyway. Talk about a short leash.

Matthew handed Francis his teacup, which rested on a matching saucer. They were turquoise and white with gold and silver trimming and leaf designs. Through the dark amber liquid, Francis could vaguely see crescent moon designs around the inside of the cup. At the very bottom was the symbol for Aries.

“I hope you like the blend,” Matthew said. “I do hope you’re not allergic to anything. I probably should have asked that first.”

The blithe way he said it said he would have seen an allergic reaction as a nuisance.

Matthew handed a cup to Arthur, who had finished his scone in two bites.

“No, sir,” Francis replied. “I’m not allergic to anything.”

“Good.” Matthew smiled wide and sat as he sipped his tea. “Mr. Bonnefoy, you live in the Hut, correct? How are you liking it? I do hope Ms. Kovalenko got that window fixed before you moved in.”

She hadn’t, but Francis only sipped his tea. Mr. Desormeaux reminded him of a psychic cold reading their client at the start of a session.

“Have you been taking care of Vasilissa? I’d hate to be caught in Mr. Braginsky’s gaze if something were to happen to her.”

Francis set his cup and saucer onto the table. “Who—?” Fish? “Um, a grey tabby?”

“And annoying as fuck,” Arthur muttered.

“Language,” said Matthew in a warning tone. He turned to Francis, expression calm. “Yes, that would be her. To hear Ivan tell it, the cat ran away whenever he tried to bring her with him to Memphis, so he decided to leave Vasilissa behind and have Ms. Kovalenko or renters take care of her. She did not tell you?”

“No, sir.” Francis’s voice was low as questions swept through his mind.

He’d never heard the name Ivan Braginsky, and he only knew the name Vasilissa from the _Vampire Academy_ series. Also, if the owner of the property also owned the cat, Francis was sure Katyusha would have mentioned it.

He couldn’t say Matthew would lie about it, though, or how he’d know about the cat.

Supposedly, he hadn’t left the property in years and didn’t converse with anyone other than his family, so how’d he know about the window or Fish, Francis couldn’t say.

And what about Arthur’s comment?

He’d shown up at the Hut, not knowing Francis was the new tenant. Had he known the last one and didn’t know they’d moved?

Francis realized everything was quiet. It wasn’t raining anymore, and he stood.

“Um, I apologize, but I need to be going. I have an interview today.”

Arthur sipped his tea, looking relieved.

Matthew looked amused. “Oh? Where are you working?”

Like he already had the job.

“Mad Hatter Cupcakes,” Francis answered, trying to keep his tone even.

Matthew nodded once. “You better hurry, then. Roderich may rarely be punctual, but he abhors tardiness in others. Have a good afternoon and night, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“You as well… sir.” Francis swallowed. “You too, Arthur.”

Arthur only nodded, eyes still closed.

Francis reached the archway when Matthew cleared his throat, and Francis turned. His gaze locked with Matthew’s, and another series of shivers dripped down Francis’s spine.

“Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“Sir?”

Matthew’s smile was predatory once more, and Kumajiro looked up at his rescuer, then to Francis.

His voice was low, making Francis have to strain to hear:

“I do hope you have sweet dreams tonight, Mr. Bonnefoy.”


	4. Open Windows, Closed Doors

_3:11_ glared back at Francis from his phone when he checked it, heart still ramming against his ribcage. His body sang with adrenaline, but instead of getting up, Francis could only toss his cellphone back onto his makeshift nightstand and stare at the ceiling. It was slanted, and there was still dirt in one corner from where mud daubers had made a nest before the landlady had them exterminated and the nest knocked down.

Sometimes Francis heard buzzing as he fell asleep. One Thanksgiving, when Marianne still had all her marbles and could live alone in Blue Moon without anyone worrying about her, Francis had played tag outside with his cousins.

Uncle Louis yelled at them for getting too close to the deep-fryer, so they ran into the nearby woods, Marianne warning them to watch out for cottonmouths and faery rings. Francis and his cousins all laughed at the _faery rings_ warning, but they took the cottonmouth warning to heart. The house was near a creek, one of many that branched off the river that hugged Blue Moon. This made cottonmouths a constant fear, even in November.

It hadn’t been a cottonmouth or copperhead Francis found, though.

While running from Amelia, Francis stepped on a yellow jacket nest. They swarmed his legs, torso, and arms. He screamed, thinking he felt them in his ears and mouth but too panicked to know for sure.

Next thing he remembered was being in the hospital, his Uncle Louis and cousin Madeline praying the Rosary. His parents were on either side of him, and his grandmother was grasping one of his hands, the one not with the pulse reader clamped to its index finger.

 _“I knew you’d be okay,”_ Marianne had said, smiling through her tears. _“It’s not your time. You still got things to do. Many, many, great, grand things.”_

Luckily, Francis wasn’t allergic to yellow jacket venom. Had he, Marianne might not have had anyone to ramble to—anyone as willing to listen, anyway. She would have had no one to convince to drop all the expectations placed onto their shoulders and move to Bumfuck, Louisiana to search for some locket and fruit.

“There’s fucking fruit everywhere,” Francis growled as the adrenaline began to ebb away. “ _Mamie_ … what the absolute hell?”

 _“Hell’s a lie for desperate people that can’t win the favor of others,”_ he heard her say. _“Hell’s fear at it’s worst, fear for fear’s sake. No strength in it. None at all.”_

The door opened as Fish—no, Vasilissa—meowed.

“Hey— _oof_.” Francis glared at the cat now on his chest, and he spat out fur as she walked around his face to get closer to the window, which was wide open.

“ _Mrow_!” she yowled, then hissed.

“Shut up, Vaseline,” Francis grumbled as he sat up.

Ears flat, Vasilissa turned to give him a short hiss before facing the window again. The fur along her spine was rising, a low, growl-like sound coming from the base of her throat.

“I thought I closed that,” Francis muttered, feeling suddenly tired again as he got up to shut the window. “ _Fuck_!”

He nearly fell onto Vasilissa as he plopped back onto his bed and checked his foot. A splinter had managed to shove itself into the ball of his foot, visible even in the dark. The lamp was on the floor, too heavy for the box acting as a nightstand, so Francis reached to turn it on, making yet another empty promise that he would start stretching more as his muscled cried at the sudden strain.

Blinking away the spots in his vision, Francis sat up again, ignoring as Vasilissa sprawled over his pillow as though claiming it as hers. He pulled out the splinter and put on his slippers to drop the splinter in the trash can on the other side of the room. It was between two piles of boxes, waiting to be unpacked.

Come Christmas, they might still be waiting.

“I don’t supposed you’d know how to find this locket my _mamie_ wanted, would you, Vasilissa?” Francis asked half-heartedly as he went to the black-and-white ottoman by the closet.

Inside were some witchcraft supplies, and while Francis didn’t practice much, he wanted to put together a sachet for keeping away nightmares. He may never recall them, but the fear would linger and left him uneasy. He felt like he’d smelled something familiar as he’d jolted into wakefulness, he couldn’t remember what it was anymore.

He heard Vasilissa make a small, grunt-like sound, and Francis got out the supplies he needed for a simple ‘sweet dreams’ sachet. He needed to get more lavender, but there was enough for what he was doing, and he used a draw-string bag he’d made himself, and once done, he hung it on the nail in the wall between the bed and window that he’d never removed.

As expected, Vasilissa refused to move from her place, and when Francis tried moving her, she gave a low, warning growl.

“Fine,” he grumbled, rummaging through the other boxes before finding another pillow.

It smelled like mothballs, but he didn’t care at this point. He slipped back underneath his blankets, almost forgetting to take off his slippers in the process, and he curled up so his head was beneath Vasilissa, who stretched to curve over Francis’s head like the crescent moon crowning the raven on Desormeaux Manor’s gate.

* * *

As he’d predicted, Francis was working at Mad Hatter Cupcakes on Monday. It was just down the street from the university, so even walking, he got there from his final class with time to spare. Roderich was nowhere to be seen, but he heard his wife, Antonia, singing in the kitchen as she baked.

“You the new guy?” asked the girl behind the counter. “I’m Michelle. I think I recognize you.”

“Oh, I’m—”

“Right!” The girl snapped as her golden eyes sparkled. Some of her long, raven hair escaped from its haphazard braid. “Bonnefoy, living in Braginsky’s Hut. I live down that road. Hope you haven’t been having nightmares. Last tenet broke his lease to get out of there.”

“I’ve been sleeping fine,” Francis assured as he headed towards the back room, which was between the display and seating area and the kitchen.

It was more of a wide hallway, aprons and hats with the shop’s name printed on them. Francis took his, and Antonia paused in her singing to remind Michelle to show Francis the ropes.

“I’m on it!” Michelle called from the front as the bell attached to the front door rang. “Good afternoon, Pastor Jones! Here for Mrs. Alyson’s batch of margarita cupcakes for Bible study?”

The responding laugh reminded Francis of Alfred’s, and when he emerged wearing the apron and hat, he saw a tall man that very much resembled his son. There were lines around his eyes and mouth and the grey in his hair, and his build was wiry where Alfred looked like the classic jock until he started making _Star Wars_ and _D &D_ references.

“The only margaritas Aly and ‘em ever touch,” said Pastor Jones, pulling a wallet from the back pocket of his khakis.

“More for the rest of us,” Michelle laughed, retrieving one of the boxes from the counter behind her. There was a post-it note on top with _Mrs. Pastor_ written on it in marker.

“You take it easy, now,” the pastor warned, though he smiled, and his eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “I’m not sure if your momma’s proud or rollin’ in her grave after you drank those frat boys under the table last weekend.”

Francis had heard of that in one of his classes, but he couldn’t see this girl that looked barely five feet tall downing liquor like water. She didn’t even look twenty-one.

Still smiling as he handed Michelle a few bills, Pastor Jones looked over at Francis. “And you must me Mr. Bonnefoy.” The gleam in his eyes became a nostalgic shimmer. “My, you have Marianne’s eyes. Her nose, too.

“Mrs. Marianne useta teach my poetry class,” Pastor Jones continued. “Back when the high school still got enough funding for a poetry class. Now even theatre’s been cut.” He shook his head. “Band’ll probably be next. Woulda broken your poor grandmother’s heart if she’d been around to hear ‘bout it.”

Changing the subject, Francis asked, “Is your son Alfred Jones? He’s in my Western civ class.”

Smiling wide again, the pastor nodded. “That’s m’boy! He rope you into checking out the church before this idolater rings you into hers?” He took his change from Michelle, who stuck her tongue out at him.

“What Mary ever did to y’all to slander her so bad, I’ll never understand,” Michelle said melodramatically, and the pastor laughed.

Chuckling along, Francis assured, “Alfred invited me to the pot luck next Sunday, and free food’s always a good deal.”

“We got free wine,” offered Michelle, laughing again as the pastor rolled his eyes.

“We’ll all be happy as a tick on a fat dog to see you,” said Pastor Jones. He turned back to Michelle before Francis could ask about the phrase. “Tell Miss Faith Aly will get her back that book later this week.” 

“Will do!” sang Michelle. “See you later, Pastor Jones!”

“’Bye, Michelle, and it was very nice meeting you, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Francis waved shyly as the pastor left. Only one customer so far, and he was already feeling worn out. He’d worked in retail before, but this was different—very different. When anyone spoke to him, it was only because they had to, and they never started with even a _hello_ , diving first into asking where whatever they wanted was and then leaving soon as they got the answer.

To people from places like Blue Moon, it might seem too impersonal or even rude, but Francis preferred it. He was a social guy, but he preferred being able to choose who he was social with and for how long. Living in a small town felt like constant socializing, and if you needed a break, you weren’t doing your part.

It was weird, especially when he felt so isolated at the Hut, with it being so far from any other houses. It was opposites living along-side each other, and it felt dizzying.

“Alright.” Michelle clapped to get Francis’s attention. “We’ll start with the pre-orders, like the pastor’s.”

She pointed at the other box, three for a dozen cupcakes, five for six cupcakes, and two four-cupcake boxes. They were stacked neatly but not too high—three at most for the six- and four-cupcake boxes. Francis recognized a couple of the surnames from classes: Beilschmidt and Łukasiewicz.

No Kirkland. No Desormeaux.

Good. Francis didn’t want to deal with either of them right now. Arthur might have been nicer in the manor, but Francis hadn’t forgotten the glares, like he’d done something horrible Arthur refused to forgive him for.

“Some of them have paid already,” Michelle explained. “Those are marked with a red dot on the post-it notes, and you’ll also see it in the invoice. Here.” She turned and started clicking on the monitor that sat on the register. “Roderich still hasn’t made you an account, so you can just use mine ‘till he does. The password’s ‘cupcake,’ so hard, right? Don’t feel shy about bugging him about it until he remembers…”

Francis calmed down as he listened and watched Michelle handle the next couple of customers before taking over. He found out quickly that everyone wanted to talk, and everyone over sixty had stories abound of Marianne, François, Uncle Louis, and Jean, Francis’s father.

By the end of his shift, he’d learned his Prim-and-Proper father once skipped school and stole a neighbor’s pick-up truck to go mudding; François had made the doors for St. Sebastian’s Church but had never entered the building until it was in his coffin; Uncle Louis had climbed over the Desormeaux Manor’s gate on a dare and swore up to Heaven he was chased by a werewolf; and Marianne once argued “’till blue in the face” with a British tourist that got lost driving to New Orleans from Dallas about some poem by John Donne.

At the end of the shift, Francis and Michelle hung up his apron and hat, and Antonia gave each of them a pumpkin spice cupcake.

“I’ve been working on a few different recipes,” she said in a low tone. “Don’t tell Roderich. I want to wait ‘till he sees the numbers himself.”

“It’s sure to sell,” Michelle assured, and Francis nodded as he ate.

The cupcake was soft and filled with what tasted like pumpkin pie but as a cream, and the frosting tasted like cinnamon.

Antonia smiled ear to ear, the lines around her green eyes deepening. “Have a good night, you two. Oh, and Francis, remember to park in the back so there’s plenty of space up front for customers.”

Francis had left his car at a campus parking lot and walked here, but he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

As they left through the back door, Michelle explained that the door stuck and needed to be jiggled a bit. “Need a ride to your car?”

“Um.” Francis looked at the back lot and noticed there was only one car in the lot. _She must’ve guessed_. “Sure, thanks.”

Michelle’s car was an old Volkswagen Beetle with faded red paint. It coughed and sputtered before the engine finally rattled to life, and Francis noticed a rainbow string doll dangling from the key. She had three BHU parking decals by the bottom right corner of the windshield.

“I’m parked by Snow Hall,” Francis said as Michelle pulled out of the lot onto a back road rather than the street making up the main square.

The road seemed only wide enough for one car, and the campus’s twelve-story library loomed over the trees. Ahead on Michelle’s side was a cemetery, statues that looked more like those angels from _Doctor Who_ than anything religious lined the road. 

The giant concrete Ouija board had been less creepy.

“Done much exploring since getting here?” Michelle asked, stopping at what was probably the world’s most useless traffic light. It wasn’t even hanging from a line; it was an older-looking one on a pole next to the road.

“Not really.” Francis forced a chuckle. “Just the Hut, school, store, and now work.”

Michelle nodded and started driving again once the light was green. “You should visit Faith and me some time. Houses in our part of town are spaced apart a good bit, so it’s always nice to have company.”

“That sounds nice.” Francis smiled.

They were on campus now, and Michelle turned down an even narrower road that took them past the music hall and onto the wide, main road that looped through the main part of campus.

“And Francis?” she sounded suddenly unsure.

“Yes?”

Just ahead was Francis’s car, lonely and the street light in front of it winking erratically.

Michelle pulled up next to the car, so Francis could get out next to the driver’s-side door.

“Don’t see Matthew Williams Desormeaux again.” Michelle’s voice was low and grave.

Door partially open, Francis faced Michelle and almost jumped. She looked suddenly older, and her golden eyes almost glowed as the night cast a shadow over her dark brown skin.

“What—?”

She cut Francis off: “Don’t open those doors. You’re not ready for what’s on the other side. Maybe you will later, but not now, not soon.”

Then her earlier grin was back, and Francis almost thought he’d imagined everything.

“Good night, Francis!” she sang. “Get home safe, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while! I've been working on other stories (and I'm attempting NaNoWriMo again this year), and I wanted to jot down some notes after reading through and noticing continuity issues. (Nothing huge, and they're fixed.) Anyway, I'll try to get the next chapter up soon. Thank you to all y'all reading, and I hope y'all keep enjoying this story!


	5. Church Potluck

The more days that passed, the more Francis was able to convince himself the warning Michelle gave him in her car was just his imagination—like the humanoid shadows in the mirrors of Desormeaux Manor. Tuesday and Wednesday, she’d been nothing but patient and sweet as she corrected Francis’s mistakes and explained the cleaning process for when Antonia left early everyday but Monday and Friday.

Francis was on his own come Thursday, but with Antonia singing in the kitchen and the customers chatting up storms, his shifts had felt anything but lonely. By Sunday, he was beginning to feel burnt out from all the forced social interaction, but he’d already agreed to go with Alfred to the church potluck.

He wasn’t going to back out just to huddle alone in the Hut. Vasilissa was growing more agitated because due to Francis forgetting to close the bedroom window before going to sleep.

She’d even knocked down the sweet dreams sachet Francis had made. After work on Tuesday, he’d found her standing in front of the spilled lavender, black salt, and violet fluorite, meowing up a storm. Her eyes had even looked different for a split second—almost human.

Francis was working too hard. He shouldn’t have assumed that a university in the South would be easier than community college. He’d heaved a sigh of relief when Dr. Wang sent out an email on Thursday, announcing that the poetry class Francis took Saturday afternoons (a class longer than three hours should be illegal, and no one could convince Francis otherwise) was cancelled for the week.

Since Dr. Wang had a reputation of being a hardass, Francis was sure he’d double down on the readings for next week, but one fewer class shared with Arthur Kirkland was a blessing.

Boo Radley’s nephew had been ignoring Francis since giving him a ride—like that whole interaction had never happened.

Because why be civil to someone who brought you home?! Of course! Because being rude to him for no damn reason was _so_ _much more logical_!

Francis was making himself angry and took deep breaths as he stood in the front hallway of the Hut. He’d hung a mirror next to the cupboard under the stairs, set into an ornate frame he’d found at the thrift store. It was run by his landlady and her girlfriend (“roommate” as far as most people in town knew), Marie von Fürstenberg. They’d helped him pick out the mirror and frame, Katyusha saying it hadn’t been until the second tenant that she finally got mirrors put into the bathrooms.

Apparently, the owner didn’t like mirrors. He’d also been a recluse like Mr. Desormeaux, his intimidating stature and hole-ridden past fueling rumors that he was part of a gang or the mafia or worked as a hitman.

It didn’t make Francis feel much better about living here, and the cheap rent made him think of those horror stories where the perfect home was for sale at a low price, reeling in the protagonist, who was hard up for cash and couldn’t afford anywhere else.

“Stop that,” Francis murmured to himself, fixing his hair for the hundredth time. The humidity wasn’t doing him any favors, but he’d always been able to make anything work for him. He also had more of a tan, which made his blue eyes stand out.

It was still hot as hell outside, though, and half of the Hut’s windows were open to circulate the air. He doubted he’d have to worry about robberies while out with Alfred, who, as though conjured by thought, started pulling into the gravel driveway. He parked behind Francis’s car and leaned on the horn, and Francis rolled his eyes as he headed towards the door, barely remembering to grab his keys off the hook on his way out.

“C’mon, Manhattan! Hussle!” Alfred called from his Pontiac, leaning out of his window with an elbow propped up on the roof. He was wearing a button-up, plaid shirt that looked too tight around his biceps and shoulders, and they were rolled up past his elbows. Large sunglasses covered his normal glasses awkwardly.

“You’re still waiting two-thousand years later for your savior,” Francis called as he locked his front door. Katyusha finally had it and the stuck window fixed. “You can wait ten seconds for me.”

Alfred let out a bark of laughter. “Leave that kind of humor on the porch, huh? Not everyone there’s gonna have a sense of humor.”

Vasilissa hopped onto the sill of a nearby open window and meowed. Her eyes looked human-like again, but when Francis looked straight at her, they looked same as usual. She made a chirp-like sound as if to ask, “ _What_?”

 _This town’s driving me insane_ , he thought, pocketing the keys as he jumped over the three wooden stairs onto the gravel footpath leading to the driveway. “Your dad seemed to have enough humor for your whole congregation when talking with Michelle on Monday.”

“He has to have enough humor for everyone.” Alfred slid back into his seat as Francis got into the passenger’s side. “He’s one of the few people at our church who’ll even talk to her. Some of the elders even tried boycotting Mad Hatter’s when she started working there.”

“Just because she’s Catholic?” Francis raised his eyebrows.

“Doesn’t help. Neither does her being black or openly gay.” Alfred put the car in reverse and told Francis to roll down his window, since the AC hadn’t worked since he got the car. “The town’s gotten _slightly_ more diverse after the university opened a decade ago, and lots of the old people hate it.” Alfred turned onto the wider road Francis’s street branched off of. In front of them was a tractor, and Alfred sped up to go around him, waving as he did so. “But Michelle’s family’s been in this town since the days owned slaves, or, as the aforementioned old people would tell it ‘plantation house days,’ like they don’t know who worked on those houses.”

Alfred rolled his eyes, and he was quiet for a moment before continuing. His accent grew thicker, showing he was more upset than his expression let on, and his eyes stayed on the road as he turned to pass the old, gutted Dollar General.

“Her wife’s family’s been here that long, too.”

There was a slight hiccup in his voice when he said _her wife’s_ , which Francis didn’t know how to interpret. He just hummed noncommittedly, signaling for Alfred to continue.

“Michelle and Faith read cards for people. They’re always accurate, to hear others say. When the ‘boycott’ happened, Antonia made Michelle promise she’d never bring her cards into the shop, and she agreed, which seemed to be enough of a compromise to them that didn’t want to give up their cupcakes.” Alfred laughed, but it didn’t sound as full as usual, like he was forcing it. “Some claim they sell spells, too. Mom says even that she bought a love spell from Faith’s mom to get my dad back when they were in high school.”

Francis again thought about Michelle warning him about Desormeaux Manor. Was it something she saw in a reading she’d done? Usually, Francis could feel when someone was doing a reading about him; one of his friends back in New York had the habit of spying on people using her Tarot and Lenormand cards.

 _“Don’t open those doors. You’re not ready for what’s on the other side. Maybe you will later, but not now, not soon,”_ she’d said.

“But all those same people that say she’s going to Hell,” said Alfred, breaking Francis out of his thoughts, “go straight to her whenever they got a problem they don’t want anyone else knowing. You learn how to keep secrets living here, but I’d bet on that Michelle and Faith knows ‘em all. Ah, we’re here.” His voice and eyes were suddenly bright, looking as though he’d never been anything but happy. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Francis could hear the warning not to talk further about Michelle and Faith here. Walls had ears, and church walls even had eyes to read lips.

“Very.” Francis smiled and followed Alfred around the small, stone building.

There were cars parked on grass, and people were laughing and singing in the large yard behind the church. People greeted Alfred like a son, grandson, or younger sibling, and some girls winked and waved, making Alfred blush. He adjusted his glasses nervously at the attention, and Francis smiled.

“Not interested in any of them?” Francis asked in a soft voice when he was sure no one could overhear.

“You must be Bonnefoy Jr. Jr!” a middle-aged man proclaimed, laughing at his non-joke as he clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Better get Al’s mom’s dirty rice before everyone else beats ya to it!”

He left without waiting for a response, and Alfred whispered, “They’re… nice. It’s just I grew up with ‘em, y’know? It’d feel weird—”

“’Ey, Alfred!” a kid that couldn’t be older than eighteen called as he walked over, holding a plate of hot dogs, pulled pork, and potato salad, all drenched in barbeque sauce. “Still trying to befriend Boo Radley’s punk nephew?”

Alfred tensed, hands going into his jeans pockets, but he managed a shrug, expression not giving anything away. Francis felt the air around him tingle, though. The sudden change in atmosphere wasn’t only noticed by him; the two guys flanking BBQ looked suddenly uneasy and hung back.

“’Course,” said Alfred, tone amiable and smile guileless.

Francis swore, though, that he could sense sudden cold around him. It’s wasn’t the ice cold he sometimes felt when walking somewhere with spirit activity; it was the cold of walking out of a hot shower or crawling out of your blankets in the morning. Alfred’s pupils were dilated, and his hands were forming fists in his pockets.

“You’re breaking your old nan’s heart,” BBQ said, and people nearby were either moving away or listening while trying to pretend they weren’t. “Talkin’ to sinners like that.” He turned his eyes to Francis and gave a nasty smirk. “You his side-project in the meantime?”

Francis bristled; he could almost _feel_ the slur he knew BBQ was thinking.

“Nan’s the one that always told me to love my neighbors as the Lord decreed,” Alfred responded, voice saccharine. His smile reminded Francis of Matthew’s—predatory—and BBQ’s smug look faltered. “Even when they spray paint ‘deez nuts’ over the high school’s Ten Commandments mural.”

“ISAAC LEE LANDRY, YOU DID _WHAT_ NOW?!” a woman, obviously the kid’s mother, screeched from a semi-circle of chairs by the dessert table.

“Momma, I wouldn’t—!” BBQ dropped his plate as his friends scattered, only to be trapped by their own mothers, and Francis bit back a grin as the large woman dragged the kid away by his ear. “ _Ow_! Owowowowow— _Momma_ —”

“Don’t you ‘momma’ me!” the woman led him to the church’s back door as Alfred’s dad stepped out. “Pastor, I’m so sorry to have dirty laundry be waving today, but my boy here’s got an apology to make to you and God.”

“Oh, um.” He looked over and caught his son’s eye, his thin lips flattening into a straight line as Alfred looked away. “Yes, ma’am. Let’s all step into my office, so we don’t disturb nobody.”

As they went in, a tall woman with dark brown hair cut in a practical bob approached them, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows raised. It didn’t take long to realize this was Alyson Jones, Alfred’s mother.

“Alfred Forest Jones, do I want to know what that was about?” she asked, and Francis found himself looking down and feeling shame even when he hadn’t done anything. Alfred must have learned his stare from her. He couldn’t imagine him learning it from Mr. Desormeaux.

“No, ma’am,” Alfred murmured, flinching when Alyson cleared her throat. “Isaac Lee was just trying to cause trouble again.” He tried for a smile, and his mom’s expression eased. “Is there any of your dirty rice left? I wanted Francis to try some.”

Alyson smiled and looked at Francis. He moved to shake her hand, but she pulled him into a hug instead.

“Good to finally meet you,” she said, and Francis grunted, unable to breathe. “Your grandmother was my favorite teacher, but your uncle Louis still owes me ten bucks. Hope my boy’s not getting you into any trouble.”

“No, ma’am,” Francis chuckled when she finally let go and let him gulp down air. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Alyson led them to the food table, talking about times when the church met for service, who to see about joining a Bible group, and other things Francis wasn’t interested in.

Instead, he leaned towards Alfred and asked, “The _F_ stands for ‘Forest’?”

“Please no _Forrest Gump_ jokes,” Alfred pleaded.

“I suggest never running past me, then.”

“When bake sale season starts, I make no promises.”

Francis laughed; maybe he could finally start relaxing now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see more interaction with Arthur soon; don't worry. As y'all are probably guessing, Alfred's tied in a bit more than just trying to be nice, so that needed to be shown before dive into plot stuff.


	6. Eavesdropping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Grace" is my name human for Monaco, and I know her final design has her with blond hair and blue eyes, but I like the initial idea of her having brown hair and eyes instead, so that's what I went with.

Rain happened like clockwork in the late afternoons, and they could range from annoying trickles to Days of Noah—like that day Francis took Arthur home.

Today was a Noah rain, making Francis hesitate before leaving the cupcake shop. Workers weren’t the only ones that parked in the back parking lot, and apparently two of the clubs at the college had decided to meet at the coffeehouse next to Mad Hatter’s this afternoon. Francis had needed to park by the back, narrow road; he’d be soaked-through before even reaching it. Worse, he had his laptop with him, and he couldn’t afford a new one if this one got ruined.

The downpours only lasted about an hour or so, at least, so Francis decided to go through the door by the restrooms in the back of the shop. He called to Roderich and Antonia that he’d be back tomorrow.

“Stay dry!” Antonia sang.

At the same time, Roderich said, “Remember to leave a log of your ours by the register on Saturday.”

“Yes, sir!” Francis closed the door behind him.

Mad Hatter’s and Bushy Tailed Café used to be one store, the two halves of the building connected by a short hallway, and instead of closing it off, the owners of both places just decided to leave it alone. The hallway was dark, the sole hanging lightbulb blinking erratically, and the portrait in the center of the wall on Francis’s right seemed to follow him with her eyes.

Before the lightbulb started shorting out a few days ago, he’d read the little, metal plate posted on the bottom of the ornate frame.

_Alice Desormeaux  
1812 – 1834  
_ _“Claim your fate, else it Claims you.”_

She wore layers of skirts that made Francis wonder if women in the Old South were constantly struck with heat stroke, and her long, half-pinned-up ringlets were the same shade of blond as Arthur’s. Her eyes were bright gold, though, like Michelle’s. Like a cat’s.

When Francis had asked why this portrait was in the hallway, Roderich had said the coffeehouse’s owner had found it in the second-floor room that was now used for storage. He’d tried giving it back to Matthew, but he didn’t want it for reasons he wouldn’t say, so he’d hung it in the hallway. He and Roderich had been arguing about how to decorate the hallway, anyway, so the single portrait felt like a compromise they could both live it.

As always when walking past Alice’s portrait, Francis felt like he was being watched, and he held his breath until reaching the café. It was loud, both clubs still in full swing. There was room at the bar by the espresso machine at least, only two chairs occupied by people trying to ignore the noise while they worked on essays.

“Need to wait out the rain?” Grace asked as Francis approached the counter.

She leaned forward, elbows on the polished granite. Her brown eyes were bright behind her glasses, and her fishtail braid was tied off with braided dandelion stems, the flowers wilting. She was quiet and pensive during the day and transformed into an outgoing and cunning card shark soon as the sun set.

Rumor was she paid for tuition through gambling. People said if you were stupid enough to play her, it wouldn’t be long before you lost everything. Some even said she’d been kicked out of three casinos while in Las Vegas last summer for counting cards.

Rumor also was that she was related to Matthew Desormeaux. The claims ranged from Matthew being her mom’s secret half-brother to him being her third cousin twice removed.

“Yeah, and hopefully I can get some of my essay for grammar done.” Francis glanced up at the menu, written in chalk and posted on the wall behind the counter, but he already knew what he wanted. “A—”

“Large latte with skim milk and toasted marshmallow flavor.” Grace adjusted her glasses, making them catch the light. “Coming right up!”

Francis handed her a ten-dollar bill and tucked two dollars into the tip jar before putting the rest of his change in the side pocket of his book bag.

From a nearby group of tables, some guys cheered while others groaned. It looked like they were playing a board game, but Francis wasn’t interested to look closer. At the other group of tables, by the fireplace Francis couldn’t imagine that ever needed to be used, it sounded like writing club was arguing over something.

Francis went over to the bar, sitting by a girl he vaguely recognized from campus. She typed quickly and didn’t look up from her screen. The teal ribbon in her shoulder length, black-streaked blond hair matched her large eyes, which were heavily lined to make them look even bigger. Black lipstick turned her lips into a heart, matching the broken hearts stamped onto her pastel purple and pink nails.

It was hard not to notice her with the tutu and studded leather jacket, but Francis was at a loss what her name was or exactly where on campus he’d passed her.

Francis plugged in his laptop and set his bag under his stool, and he typed his password in wrong when he heard someone from writing club call out, “Boo Radley Junior! Finally, you’re here!”

The writing club went silent, and even the second club playing their board game started to quiet. Some of the writing club members grumbled, and two of the members left. One said something Francis couldn’t hear, but Arthur frowned as he sat in one of the vacated chairs. The guy that had greeted him smiled at him, but it wasn’t returned.

“Really, Antonio?” one of the club members hissed, and Francis got his password right the third time as he tried to overhear.

“He’s a good poet.” Antonio shrugged. Even from this far away, it was easy to see that his eyes were bright green, like Arthur’s. “And it’s not like anyone’s handed anything around for critique yet.”

There were more grumbles of what Francis assumed to be excuses for why they hadn’t written anything. He’d probably heard similar or identical ones in his art class when he was in community college.

 _An Associate’s in art and soon a Bachelor’s in English. Employers will be busting down my door_. Sarcasm saturated the thought as he opened the document for his essay.

He tried to ignore Arthur and the club, barely noticing when Grace was holding his latte over the frosted glass separating the bar from the kitchen area.

“Thanks.” He smiled as he took the cup. Since he was drinking it here, Grace had put it in a large mug, which had been heated to keep the coffee hot longer. “Still trying to learn coffee foam art?”

Grace groaned, which made Francis laugh and the pastel goth beside him smirk.

“Taking a break for now,” Grace sighed. “I’ll try again when I stop wanting to throw all the cups at the wall in a rage.” She looked up when the door jingled, smile falling. “I’m gonna switch places with Toris. If you need anything else, let him know.”

She walked away before Francis could say _Goodbye_.

“Hey, Francis!” Alfred greeted, clapping him on the back. He leaned against the polished granite bar. “Hey, Lili. I thought you were working with Vash tonight.”

Lili—ah, that was pastel goth’s name—was already up and slipping her laptop into her bag. “On my way there now. Try not to damage those books you took out too bad.” She smiled, but there was something in her eyes that made Alfred’s grin falter. “They’re old. Hard to replace.”

“Sure thing.” Alfred chuckled. He took Lili’s seat when she left, leaving behind her mug. “Hey, Toris.”

Coming out of the back kitchen was a guy with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, turquoise eyes, and a kind smile.

“Hey, Alfred.” Toris’s smile grew, and Francis tried not to choke on his latte upon noticing he wore a _Covfefe_ T-shirt. “I haven’t seen you here much lately.”

“Buying coffee every day’s getting expensive.” Alfred chuckled again, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve been needing something sweet, though. Calculus is kicking my ass.”

“Elvis mocha, coming right up.” Toris started getting to work, and Alfred excused himself to pay.

Tapping on his mouse pad before his laptop could go to sleep, Francis watched the writing club out of the corner of his eye. Arthur was slumped in his chair as a couple of papers that looked to have been ripped out of a spiral notebook—the one he was always carrying around, probably—was passed around. Francis couldn’t see many of the members besides Antonio, but by the hunches shoulders and shaking heads, they didn’t seem happy.

“What’s even in an Elvis mocha?” Francis asked when Alfred returned, but half his attention was still on Arthur, much as he didn’t want it to be.

Arthur had ignored him again in the café in the campus library and in Western Civ. Francis wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much. He’d been popular in high school and had a healthy social life at community college, which had led to people disliking him for one reason or another. Making friends tended to make enemies at the same time. He’d always let it roll off his back.

 _“Hating is what people are best at,”_ Marianne had told him once, when Francis had let someone’s insults get to him. _“People who find constructive things they’re good at can let go of hate easy. Others? Not so much. They’ve found a purpose, and they’re going to hang on to it.”_

It had been one of the more reasonable things she’d said after she started living in Long Island with them. It was something Francis kept close to heart whenever he started to feel others’ judgment of him chip away at his self-worth.

Arthur’s glares and avoidance didn’t feel like senseless hate, though. Francis wasn’t sure _what_ it felt like. Maybe that was what bothered him about it.

“It’s a mocha with extra chocolate,” Alfred replied, Francis only half-hearing him. “Plus banana and peanut butter syrup.”

Francis must have made a face, because Alfred told him to at least try it.

“There’s extra if you want a sample,” Toris said over the hiss of the steamer.

“Sure,” Francis said after a moment, finally taking his attention off the writing club. He set his latte down and woke up his laptop as he took the small, shot glass-sized paper cup from Toris.

The coffee smelled sweet and tasted even sweeter. Toris laughed at the face he made while Alfred took his mug and said it wasn’t for everyone.

“I hope diabetes doesn’t run in your family,” Francis commented as he took a long sip of his latte. The toasted marshmallow flavor added some sweetness, but Alfred’s mocha may as well have been chugging pure sugar.

Alfred chuckled, the same almost nervous sound, like when he talked to Lili. “Don’t worry, dude. I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been.”

“Surprising with his diet,” Toris remarked, laughing at Alfred sticking up his pinky finger before going to the counter to serve a customer.

“What’s that for?” Francis asked as Alfred set his hand down.

“Cursin’ is a sin and all that.” Alfred shrugged after a sip of his sugar. “So as kids, whenever I got mad at Toris or our friend Mathias, I’d stick up my pinky instead of my middle finger and say ‘Y’all don’t deserve the whole bird, so you’re just getting the feather.’”

As the two talked, it became apparent Francis wasn’t going to get any work done here, and the rain was done for the night anyway. He packed up his stuff, and Alfred clapped him on the back again, wishing him well as he went to leave his mug in a plastic tub in the back hallway, near the swinging door that led into the back kitchen. Francis went around him to the door leading him outside.

“Sure you don’t want to stop by church?” Alfred asked as Francis opened the door, making the bells attached to it jingle.

“I prefer sleeping in after Dr. Wang’s class,” he laughed, and Alfred joined in.

“Fair enough. G’night!”

“’Night, Al.”

More of the cars were gone, and the air smelled of petrichor and exhaust. Stars winked above like diamonds floating in ink, and Francis’s breath caught as he just stared at them for a moment. A view like this made moving feel worth it. Stargazing was his favorite activity when he’d come down to Blue Moon on holidays to visit Marianne; he felt so important and insignificant at the same time looking at the stars.

 _“We’re all stardust,”_ Marianne told him one night while they laid in the grass, ignoring Francis’s mom’s fear of snakes and alligators. _“I heard a scientist talk about it. We call them violent. The stars, not scientists—not usually scientists, anyway.”_

Francis and Amelia, who had been with them, giggled at that.

Marianne had continued, _“Some explode when they die, then collapse and become something so dark, even light can’t escape their pull. We got that in us, too. Brightest light and darkest dark.”_

Sighing, Francis smiled and started towards his car when he heard something from the narrow alley between the coffeehouse and thrift store. It smelled horribly due to the dumpster, but Francis stayed when he recognized Arthur’s voice.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter!” It sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth.

“Your uncle’s worried.” Alfred? Did he know Mr. Desormeaux personally? How?

“I can handle myself.”

“That window in Williams Center begs to differ.”

Francis had heard about windows shattering in one of the classrooms in Williams Center yesterday. Some said Arthur had thrown rocks at them during class, and some went as far as to say he’d attached small explosives to them that he detonated during Dr. Honda’s lecture.

No one had been seriously hurt, but some people had still been sent to the infirmary due to cuts from the glass. Even with his cold exterior, Francis couldn’t imagine Arthur actually doing something like that.

Arthur was silent for a moment. Then, in a soft voice, he said, “I’m not going Dark.”

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

Alfred exhaled loudly. “I didn’t say you are.”

“But that’s why you and Uncle Matthew are so worried.”

“Neither of us really have a place to lecture or worry over Turning Dark.”

Arthur scoffed, the sound turning into a humorless laugh. “No, you really don’t. So leave me. The fuck. Alone.”

“Have you been sleeping at least?” Alfred sounded genuinely worried. “The nightmares—”

“Stay the _fuck_ away from my dreams!” Arthur sounded closer, moving towards the parking lot, and Francis flattened himself against the wall. “Go find some Mortal to drain or steal memories from!”

Arthur didn’t see Francis as he stomped over to a long, dark-colored car—seriously? He drove a _hearse_?—and drove away. Francis walked around to the alley, about to ask Alfred what the hell all that was about when he saw that Alfred was gone. He headed to the front of the coffeehouse through the alley, but he didn’t see any sign of Alfred of his Pontiac. 

“So it wasn’t _Mamie_ that was crazy,” Francis murmured. “It’s the whole goddamn town.”


	7. A/N

I don't think I'll be updating this. I don't know why I started it. It's not good, and I don't have the skill to make it better.


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